


Songs of Innocence and of Experience

by MediumSizedEvil



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-03-01 01:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 9,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18790375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MediumSizedEvil/pseuds/MediumSizedEvil
Summary: Reopening an old case forces Jake to confront demons from his past. A murder mystery with a twist, B99-stylez, and perhaps a dash of romance and humor.I wish every cop had a voice in their head, asking 'what if he's innocent?'





	1. Chapter 1

"Here," Amy said, dropping a thick envelope on Jake's desk. "This is for you. A nice package."

"Title of your sex tape," he replied lazily and looked at the envelope. It was adressed to him, but there was no return address. He opened it and looked inside to find a wad of rolled up toilet paper. Gross. Although it looked clean from this angle he put on some gloves just in case before letting it fall on a fresh sheet of paper on his desk. As the bystanders gathered, he took his least favourite pen and carefully unrolled the paper.

"MARCUS LEMAINE IS COMING TO KILL YOU," he read out loud. At least it was written in ink. He shrugged. "Ok, nothing to see here, just a regular old death threat from a lunatic."

"Hey!" Terry said. "Just because he talks about himself in the third person doesn't make him a lunatic."

"No, but writing death threats on toilet paper does. Oh well, I'll just toss this out."

"Who is Marcus Lemaine?" Terry asked. "The name sounds kinda familiar."

"Oh, he's a nasty piece of work," Jake replied. "I put him away for aggrevated assault but he's also my main suspect in an unsolved double homicide. He's still up the river, as far as I know. Fits with the toilet paper theme."

"You should let Captain Holt know," Amy said worriedly. "It could be serious. We should find out if Marcus Lemaine is getting out of prison soon, and keep tabs on him."

"Pffff," Jake replied, and went to grab some coffee.

 

"What the fuck you fucking pig I'm gonna fucking kill you you fucking pig!"

"Well, nice try, Marcus." Jake walked up to Marcus Lemaine, who was being handcuffed by Terry. "Just a hint, maybe next time don't send me a death threat. It kinda spoils the surprise."

"What the fuck you fucking talkin' bout you fucking, fuck you!"

Jake frowned. "The death threat, on toilet paper."

"Didn't send you no fucking death threat you fucking pig! Do I look fucking stupid to you?"

"Actually, yes." Jake looked over at Terry, who was pushing a handcuffed Marcus forward. "Hey Marcus, do you ever talk about yourself in the third person?"

"Like what, fuck, what the fuck you talkin' bout?"

"Like, Marcus went to the market, or Marcus did this, Marcus did that?"

"I told you I'm not fucking stupid!"

"Hey!" Terry replied, giving Marcus a shove. "Terry doesn't like that."

 

"So it wasn't a death threat, it was a warning letter," Jake said, idly turning around in his desk chair. He shook his head. "I should have known it wasn't from Marcus. It had good spelling and grammar, and not a single fuck was given."

"So who sent you a warning letter, and why?" Amy asked, perching on the edge of his desk.

Jake pushed his chair back. "Obviously someone who knew that Marcus was going to kill me as soon as he got out of prison. And considering the toilet paper, it's probably another inmate."

Amy turned the envelope over in her hand and looked at address and postmark. "But the envelope didn't come from Sing Sing," she said. "Also the handwriting and the ink of the address don't match the letter's."

Jake tapped his pen on his desk while thinking. "The letter was anonymous. You can't send anonymous letters to police stations from jail. So it was smuggled out, and then posted by someone else."

Amy sighed. "Somebody went to a lot of trouble to save your life and not take credit for it."

"And I need to know who it is, and why." Jake stood up. "If Marcus finds out somebody ratted on him his life could be in danger."


	2. Chapter 2

Jake put an open folder on Amy's desk. "Handwriting comparison with all of Marcus's known associates showed only one possible match: Arthur Cardew, currently doing forty years in Sing Sing for killing his wife Bonnie. She found out he was cheating on her and he bashed her head in. I was the one who arrested him."

Amy shook her head. "Then why does he want to save your life?"

"I have no idea," Jake replied. "Let's go and ask him."

 

Arthur Cardew was a tall, thin man with wispy hair and round glasses. He had the look of a ferret about him, Amy thought as they entered the barren room where he was waiting. They sat down opposite him at a rusty table.

"So, Arthur, did you send me this 'letter'?" Jake asked, unrolling the toilet paper in front of him.

Arthur swallowed hard. "I did," he said at last. "Does he know? Does Marcus know?" he added nervously.

"I'm not sure, but I don't think he does at the moment," Jake replied. "But I want to know why you sent it."

"Well to warn you, of course."

"Yes, but I arrested you for killing your wife. Why did you want to save me?"

"I didn't do it. I didn't kill her."

"You cheated on your wife and you killed her," Jake stated. Then he sighed. "Ok, let's assume you're _innocent_ for a second - like everyone else in here - then I put you away for a crime you didn't commit. Shouldn't you hate me even more?"

"I don't hate you. I know I looked guilty as hell alright, but I didn't do it. I didn't kill her."

Jake arched an eyebrow and looked over at Amy.

Arthur leaned back and adjusted his glasses. "Look, I did cheat on her. I admitted it to you then and I'll admit it now, and I regret it. I really do. But I didn't kill her, and I pleaded not guilty cause I didn't do it. But still I'm in here and it's shit." He nervously tapped his fingers on the table. "But Marcus, he came up to me the other day, and he told me he was getting out and he was going to kill you first thing. He knew you'd arrested me too, we weren't friends but I sometimes wrote letters for him. So he thought I'd like to hear. And then I started thinking, like, I've been reading about Zen Buddhism in here, and it just wasn't right. He was going to kill you because you arrested him, and he deserved it. And maybe you arrested me and it wasn't right, but..." Arthur stared up at the ceiling. Then he turned back to Jake. "Look, I never see my kids anymore. They believe I killed their mother. They don't want to see me, they don't answer my letters. They live with their grandma now. And I thought maybe you had a kid and he wouldn't have a father anymore cause you made a mistake once, and I couldn't live with that. So that's why I wrote the letter. Sorry about the toilet paper, but my cellmate ate my notepad. And I bribed a guard to smuggle it out, I told him I'd do his taxes."

Jake was silent. For once he didn't know what to say. He moved his chair back. "Well I don't have a kid but..." he started slowly, looking up and then remaining silent.

"But I'm his wife," Amy said. "And I am grateful to you. For saving his life."

Arthur looked over at them, puzzled for a second. "Ok," he sighed. Then he leaned over and stared at them both. "Just make sure Marcus doesn't find out, ok?" he asked. "Or he's gonna kill me."

Jake nodded slowly. "I'll keep him away from you."

"And we'll have another look at your case," Amy added.

"What?" Jake turned to her.

"He saved your life, it's the least you could do," Amy reproached him. "What if he really is innocent? What if you could get him out of prison?"

"We'll discuss this later," Jake said, grinding his teeth.


	3. Chapter 3

Jake angrily pulled the car door shut. "Great, now I owe my life to a murderer."

Amy gave him a pointed look.

"He's guilty as fuck, Ames!" Jake started the car and looked straight ahead. "He was there at the scene, he had blood all over him, his prints were on the murder weapon, and he had a motive as clear as day, the cheating bastard! It's an open and shut case."

"Well I'm going to have another look at the case, even if you won't," Amy said pointedly. "And I really can't believe this, you were convicted of a crime you didn't commit, and you refuse to give him the benefit of the doubt?"

"But I know this case, and I know I was right."

"So you can't take criticism, is that it? When it's your own cases you can't possibly be wrong."

Jake aggressively changed gear as they drove off the parking lot. "I doubt a lot, but not in this case. You'll see, when you read it. There is no other explanation possible."

"Well he did you a huge favor, and he didn't have to. I think you owe him that much."

Jake shrugged. "Well maybe he sent the letter hoping I would reopen his case."

"That's absurd. He sent an anonymous letter, and he didn't even ask you to look at his case. And what would be the point for him if he's actually guilty?"

"I don't know, wasting valuable police time?"

"We'll do this on our own time. Yes, 'we'. You're not getting out of this."

"I already had another look at his case file before we came here." Jake took a deep breath. "Ok, so here's what happened, Cardew made a 911 call from his home at about 10.30 pm, said that his wife was bleeding heavily and needed an ambulance. When they got there she was already dead, lying on the living room floor in nothing but a flimsy nightdress. He was covered in her blood, and the murder weapon, a statue, was lying next to him with his prints all over it."

"A statue?" Amy asked. "What sort of statue? How big?"

"Just a statue of a girl, the kind of thing you'd put on a side table. That's where it came from, their own living room. About twenty inches tall. The head had come off, and he'd beaten her with it repeatedly. Savagely. There was so much blood, you're gonna throw up when you see the photos. The fucking animal."

"So what did he say happened?"

"That he came home, found her bleeding on the floor and called 911." Jake looked over at Amy. "You know where he was coming from that evening? His mistress. Of course he didn't tell me that, made up some bullshit story. But I talked to Bonnie's sister, and she told me that Bonnie suspected he was cheating and was wondering if she should confront him. So I dug down real deep and I found the mistress, all the evidence, and that's when I knew I had him, the lying bastard. She must have confronted him that night when he came home, they got into a fight and then he hit her with the statue, panicked and called 911."

"He said he admitted to the cheating but not the murder."

"Yeah he confessed alright when I confronted him with the evidence. But cheating is easy to admit, it doesn't carry a prison sentence."

"But he got extra long because he pleaded not guilty."

"He's just an arrogant bastard. He played the kids card to make you like him. Sob story."

"Have you ever thought that you might be slightly prejudiced against men who cheat?"

"Oh, this is about me now?" Jake shrugged. "I just followed the evidence, that's all I did. And if he didn't do it, then who did? Everybody I spoke to loved Bonnie. She had no enemies. The only one with a motive was Arthur." He looked up, trying to remember something. "And his mistress had a solid alibi," he added.

Amy looked pensive. "And there were no other fingerprints on the statue?"

"Only his, hers, and the cleaner's, who was 100% back home in Guatemala at the time. I checked flights, stamps, immigration, the whole thing."

"Maybe the killer wore gloves. Maybe he was a burglar," Amy mused. "What if it was a home invasion gone wrong? Bonnie surprised an intruder, who hit her with the closest object, and then Arthur surprised him?"

"Nothing was missing from the house, the front and back door were locked, there were no other exits, and no signs of forced entry. Where did he go when Arthur came in through the front door? Was it a ghost?"

"Don't mock me," Amy said irritably. "So who did Arthur think did it? Did he hear anything, see anything when he came in?"

"He says he saw and heard nothing, he just saw her lying on the floor, already bleeding." Jake clutched the steering wheel tightly. "And the children were at their grandmother's. Imagine waking up in the morning to find your mother dead and your father a murderer."

"Or to find your mother dead and your father falsely accused of murder."

Jake turned a corner rather sharply.

"Well, if he was guilty," Amy mused, "wouldn't he have made something up to shift the blame? To send the police on a wild goose chase? Like, I saw a big, bad man beating my wife, and then he ran away?"

Jake smiled despite himself. "I like how you didn't say 'black' there."

"Yeah, although that's what they would say," she agreed. "But he didn't. And did he not accuse anyone else? Like, her brother secretly hated her, you should look into that? Or, her ex-boyfriend from college was really jealous? Or, she said she was being followed by a creepy man the other day?"

"No, he didn't say any of that. He said he had no idea who would want to kill her. But that doesn't make _him_ innocent."

Amy sighed. "You must have spent hours and hours with him in interrogation. That must have been really frustrating."

Jake didn't respond, but she could see his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel.

"You got a conviction but not a confession, and you consider it a blemish on your record. And you resent him for it."

"Are you my therapist now? Stop making this about me!"

"You've broken hardened criminals," Amy continued, "And yet you couldn't make a mousy accountant sing."


	4. Chapter 4

"Jake, can you come and have a look at this?" Amy asked.

"Sure," Jake replied, and followed her into the evidence room. On the table lay an complete outfit of men's clothing, covered in old, rusty blood.

"Arthur Cardew's clothes," Amy said.

He nodded. "I know."

"And what do you see?" she asked.

"Blood, lots of blood. Bonnie Cardew's blood."

Amy nodded. "Yes, it's all hers, confirmed. You know what I see? I see lots of blood too. I see large stains of blood," she said, pointing to the front of the shirt. "I see smaller stains of blood." She pointed to a trouser leg. "I see fabric drenched in blood." She was pointing to the bottom of the sleeves. "Smudges, smears, all sort of blood." 

She paused, and Jake looked at her expectantly. "But what I don't see is blood spatter. Not even microspatter. And I checked under the microscope." She paused and looked at him. "Now when you bludgeon someone to death with a statue at such close range, you're going to get some backspatter on you. Guaranteed."

"Well, maybe they're underneath the bloodstains," he offered.

"Yes, some of them would be," she agreed. "But considering the angle and force of the blows I'd expect at least a smattering over here." She pointed to the shoulder area of the shirt, which was clean. "And here." She indicated the top of the sleeve. "From swinging the statue while she was lying down."

He nodded slowly. He hated to admit it, but she was right. He bent down over the shirt, and scanned the fabric closely. "What's this then?" he asked, pointing to an area covered in tiny brown specs.

"That's just a light smear, not blood spatter. The pattern's different. I checked under the mike." She took a deep breath and looked at evidence on the table. "I see the clothes of a man who cradled his wife while she bled to death in his arms. Who tried to stop the bleeding with his bare hands while kneeling in a pool of her blood. That is what I see, and nothing else."

Jake looked down, and then spoke. "So you think he's innocent?"

"I'm saying that there's a lack of blood spatter evidence to the contrary."

Jake pondered aloud. "What if he was wearing something over his clothes when he killed her, like say, a plastic rain poncho? And then took it off before calling 911 and disposed of it."

"Where? They searched the whole house, and he didn't have time to go anywhere."

Jake sighed. "I don't know."

"Also, why didn't his lawyer bring this up?" Amy added. "I checked all the court files."

"Well to be fair I think his lawyer was an alcoholic."

She nodded. "Well, this is what I would ask you on the stand. And I wouldn't be impressed with your answers."

He turned to her. "Ok, maybe you're right. Maybe I didn't look closely enough. Or maybe I didn't want to see it. And maybe Charles should have been more critical. But this really isn't enough for a retrial."

"I know," Amy said. "That's why we need to keep looking. So are you with me?"


	5. Chapter 5

"Amy, do you have a moment? I want to talk to you about the Cardew case."

"Of course," she said, and followed Jake into the evidence room.

He opened the box with the broken statue in it, and she looked inside. There was a head, an arm, some smaller pieces and the rest of the figurine.

Jake put the lid aside. "Now we've been talking a lot about whose fingerprints were on the murder weapon."

Amy nodded. "His, hers, and the Guatemalan cleaner's."

"But not _where_ they were," he continued, pointing at the statue. "Now hers were mostly at the top. She would be arranging it probably, turning it to the best angle. The cleaner's prints were all over. She was just moving it to clean. But his were only in the middle. And that got me thinking. Is that really the best place to hold a statue as a weapon? You don't hold a hammer in the middle either, for maximum impact."

Amy nodded. "Arthur said in his statement that he only touched the statue because it was lying half on top of his wife, and he had to move it out of the way. That is more consistent with the placement."

"Maybe we could do some 3D imaging on this?" Jake suggested. "See how the fingerprints line up with a virtual hand?"

"Or we could print a copy of the reassembled statue in resin, and hit each other with it?" Amy suggested. 

"Great idea."

Amy nodded. "We've got a lot of new toys now that we didn't have back then."

"You're just trying to make me feel better."

 

"It's pretty awkward to hold in the middle," Jake said, swinging the brand new replica statue around. "And not a very good range.

Amy nodded. "And that's with the head still on. It got even shorter without. And I think the head probably came off with the first blow, or shortly after, because of the sharp edges causing all those cuts on her."

"Can you just lay on the floor while I beat you to death for a second?"

"Sure," she agreed, and lay down on cold concrete.

"This is even worse," he said, bending over her. "It's a very awkward pose this low, not good for beating. Very unergonomical. But if I grab it like this," he said, moving his hands to the bottom of the statue, "it's much easier to hold, I don't have to bend over so much and I've got a lot more momentum." He proceeded to fake beat her a couple of times.

"Hey guys," Rosa said as she came in, "Can you please do your weird shit somewhere else?"

"It's for a case," Amy said quickly.

Jake held out his hand to help Amy up from the floor. "Although theoretically you could bludgeon someone to death while holding the statue in the middle, in practice you just wouldn't. You'd instinctively move your hands lower."

Amy nodded slowly. "I think we need to speak to Arthur Cardew again."


	6. Chapter 6

"So what about Marcus?" Arthur asked nervously. "Does he suspect anything?"

Jake shook his head. "When he asked me about it I said I got an anonymous death threat from someone, and that I only thought it was him because of how many fucks were in it. I think he bought the story. He's not the sharpest tool. But I'll keep him away from you just in case."

Arthur nodded, relieved. "Thanks."

"For the record," Jake continued, "I'm still not convinced you're innocent. Just that there might possibly be grounds for reasonable doubt."

"It's not enough, so we need to find the real culprit," Amy added. "Who do you think might have killed her? You've had a lot of time to think now."

Arthur shook his head. "I still don't know. I have no idea. Everybody loved Bonnie, she was a ray of sunshine, she was..." He looked like he was slightly choking up.

"What about Denise?" Jake interrupted. "Wouldn't she hate Bonnie?"

"No, she didn't hate her, she wasn't even jealous. She never asked me to leave Bonnie for her, and I never would have, I loved her and the children too much. Look, Denise was recently divorced, she came on to me and I just...let it happen."

Jake twitched, and Amy put a hand over his.

"It was just some excitement, we tried new things, I was so stupid." He looked up. "And Denise cut off all contact with me when she thought I had actually killed Bonnie. She wanted nothing to do with me." Arthur put his hand flat on the table and looked up at them both. "Also I left her in bed, and I drove straight home. How could she have gotten there before me?"

Amy nodded. "And the security cameras in the lobby prove that she didn't leave her apartment until the next morning."

"Maybe she hired a contract killer?" Jake suggested.

Arthur stared at him. "She worked as a DMV clerk. How could she even afford one, let alone find one?"

"Jake, just let it rest, ok?" Amy said. She looked down at her notepad with questions. "So could it have been a burglary gone wrong? What did you have in the house that was worth stealing?"

"Well, electronics, I guess? A tv, but it wasn't really that new. We had nothing special really."

"Art, jewelry?"

"No art. She didn't wear a lot of jewelry, the most expensive thing she had was her wedding ring, and she still had it on." Arthur put his head between his hands on the table.

"What about the statue?" Amy asked. "Was it valuable?"

"No, it was just a simple statue, it only had sentimental value. She got it from her late great aunt."

Jake interrupted, "And was this by any chance a very rich great aunt?"

"Aunt Ethel?" He shook his head. "No, not at all, she lived very modestly. Bonnie even helped her out sometimes. She was like that," he added regretfully.

"Did you have anything hidden, in a safe perhaps?" Jake continued "Cash, bonds, that sort of thing?"

"No, I didn't have a safe, and we never kept large amounts of cash in the house."

"Did you ever brag to anyone that you had something valuable in the house, even though you didn't?"

Arthur looked surprised. "No, of course not. I'm a tax accountant. Or I was."

There was an awkward silence. At last Amy spoke. "I have one more question, Mr Cardew. Were you and your wife supposed to be home that night, or did you change your plans?"

"No, Wednesday was our regular tennis night," he replied. "But Bonnie had a headache, and she went to lie down upstairs."

"And you went to see your mistress," Jake sneered.

 

Amy looked at the large stack of papers on her desk and gratefully accepted an cup of coffee from Jake. "We're really getting nowhere with the Cardew case," she said wearily. "A burglar who walks through locked doors, to steal nothing, and leaves no prints, and no DNA?"

"I'm still not convinced it was a burglary," Jake said. "Perhaps it was someone she knew, someone who had a key to the back door? And the amount of violence, it just feels personal. Why keep hitting her when she was already on the floor, if the burglar just wanted to get away?"

"Maybe she saw his face, and he needed to make sure she was dead," Amy suggested.

"Or what if it really was Arthur," Jake said. "And he wore a poncho and gloves when he beat her, and he hid them in a secret place the police never found?"

Amy shook her head. "I just feel like we're going round and round in circles. Are you too afraid to admit you might be wrong?"

"No, I'm afraid I sent an innocent man to prison!" Jake stared at the wall, lost in thought. "Wait!" He turned around. "What if he was framed, like me?


	7. Chapter 7

Jake dropped off a box of donuts at Amy's desk. "Lost in thought?"

"Yes, just thinking about the Cardew case. It's a classic _huis clos_."

Jake nodded. "I'm just going to pretend I know what that is and secretly look it up later." He opened the box on her desk. "How do you spell that?"

"It means 'behind closed doors'." Amy looked inside the box. It was a tough choice. "I just can't get over the locked back door. Only Bonnie and Arthur had a key, and they were both accounted for."

"What if Bonnie's mother had a key, but Arthur didn't know about it?"

Amy picked up a lime-coconut donut. "And Mrs. Mornington killed her own daughter?"

"Maybe Bonnie wasn't really her daughter. Maybe...she lived a double life and she was secretly a Russian spy. Don't you think she's a little too perfect? And Mrs. Mornington was her handler and had received orders to kill her."

"Ok, now you're really going off the deep end."

"I still think that maybe we should talk to her to ask about the back door key."

"For the umpteenth time, we can't interview anyone except Arthur because this is not an official investigation." Amy sternly shook her half-eaten donut at him. "Don't even think about it. Like Captain Holt said, we don't want to upset Mrs. Mornington. She's been through enough."

"Ok, ok." Jake sat down on Amy's desk. "I still think Arthur might have been set up."

"Come on, you don't frame someone for murder for losing a game of tennis. Arthur said he had no real enemies." Amy paused to think. "Although the artist Caravaggio did kill a guy after a tennis match, but that was in the heat of the moment. I wrote my thesis on painters who were murderers."

"You're so fucking cultured," Jake said admiringly. Then he sighed. "Also we know she wasn't assaulted, no signs of a struggle prior to the blows, nothing under her fingernails. So what the hell was the motive?" Jake tapped his pen on Amy's desk, lost in thought. "Or was she waiting for her lover in her nightgown, and they had a fight? That would be some twist, double-crossing spouses. And she let him in?"

"And who locked the door behind him?" Amy asked. 

"Maybe she gave him a key."

"And he was wearing gloves inside for some reason?" Amy wondered, "And didn't shed a single hair? Premeditated the whole thing like a pro? No, I still think we're looking for a thief, and a pretty good one."

Jake grabbed a cocoa-raspberry donut. "Hey, do you think that maybe he was looking for something that they didn't know they had, that someone had planted in their home for safekeeping? Drugs, money..." He suddenly pointed at the replica statue that Amy had placed on her desk for the last few weeks. "What if there was something inside the statue? Can we x-ray it?"

"Sure, go ahead, if you can arrange it." Amy said offhandedly, staring at the replica. "I think it's quite nice actually, with a head, and without blood. You know the thing with garden center statues is that they're all the same. It's always Venus de Milo, Diana, Cupid, something like that. Now I'm thinking this could be a Flora, or Ceres perhaps, she's holding a bunch of...something." Amy turned to Jake. "The style looks kind of French, late 19th century to me, but I've never seen this exact one before, and I've checked lots of auction websites, eBay, Google Images..."

"You think it might be real art?" Jake asked, amazed. "Poor aunt Ethel's statue?"

"I don't know. Or maybe it's only a copy. But just to be sure, I think I'll go and take the pieces to one of my old professors," Amy said. "Maybe I'll look like an idiot, but we're really getting nowhere with this case.

"Alright, then I'll go find out more about great aunt Ethel. Maybe she was secretly rich or something."

 

"So I've got some news," Jake said.

"Me first!" Amy said excitedly.

"Ok." Jake put an arm around her. "Tell me all about it."

"So I went to Professor Harcourt and I was right, it is French! Of around 1870, 1880. He says it could be by César Berneuilles, Marnix de Rieux or someone of that school." 

Amy squeezed her hands in excitement, while Jake nodded sagely, as if that information meant anything to him. "So it's genuine, not a copy?"

Amy nodded enthusiastically.

"And what's it worth?"

"Well in pieces, nothing. But he skyped with a appraiser friend of his, who said this style was still pretty hot and could fetch as much as 40,000 at auction, provided it was in mint condition before it was broken."

"40,000 dollars?" Jake's mouth fell open. "Who'd give a 40,000 dollar statue to their cleaner?"

"The cleaner?" Amy looked puzzled. "Did Bonnie give it to the cleaner?"

"No, the great aunt," Jake explained. "She's the cleaner. I found out she used to work as a housekeeper for an eccentric old lady who just happened to be the widow of an art dealer."

"Oh my God," Amy exclaimed and hugged him.

Jake nodded. "We found the smoking gun."


	8. Chapter 8

"Ok, so we're going to assume that aunt Ethel got the statue from Grace Nussbaum," Jake said. "A really expensive statue. Kinda suspicious."

"You think she stole it? Maybe Mrs. Nussbaum was just very lonely, and Ethel was the only friend she had in the world," Amy suggested. "Or perhaps Grace didn't realise how much it was worth, if she didn't know anything about her husband's business."

"Well, on the other hand I think it's more likely that Ethel didn't know about the statue's value either, or she would have sold it instead of accepting charity from Bonnie."

"Unless it had great sentimental value," Amy pondered.

"Maybe they were lesbian lovers!"

Amy sighed. "Well, does it matter really? In any case, Bonnie didn't know it was valuable. But one person did, the thief. And we need to find him."

"Or her," Jake added. "Equal opportunities and all. Let's look at all the art thefts around that time in the New York area and see if we can find a link."

"Alright, let's split the territory and get to work."

 

Amy put down her stack of files on the table. "So what have you got?"

"Same as you, lots of dead ends," Jake replied. "Nothing seems to match. Here, break-in at an art gallery, but they only stole the Champagne. Well, that's what I would do. And this seemed like the perfect heist, turns out his own daughter did it! Oh and this one's really funny, a homeless man stole a piece of modern art and tried to sell it for scrap metal. You should read the artist's rant, it's hilarious."

"No thanks. I'm really tired."

"I only had a few promising leads on seemingly related cases, but they were either in prison or had a solid alibi. I was sure it must be Frankie 'the Fingers' Mozetti, but he was gambling in Atlantic City the whole night, all caught on multiple security cameras."

"Same," Amy said. "I've just got a few unsolved cases left that might be linked. Maybe I should give those another look. Or perhaps we should widen our search area?"

"To the whole country? The whole world? No, I think perhaps we need to approach this from a different angle," Jake said. "How did the art thief know that Arthur and Bonnie had a valuable statue at all, when even they didn't?"

"Yes, you're right," Amy said. "They usually scout rich neighborhoods for targets, not bland middle-class homes."

"Maybe he had access to the house, and came across it by accident? What if he was a handyman, or a plumber?"

"An art thief would never moonlight as a plumber, manual labour is beneath them," Amy said decidedly. "They're among the most intelligent and well-educated criminals; they need specialist knowledge and connections to the underground art world to sell their loot. You can't hawk a Monet on a street corner like a Rolex. And they have the technical expertise to bypass the most advanced security systems, fences and locks. These crimes are planned meticulously in advance. Art theft is the Ivy League of larceny. This job should have been a walk in the park really, they didn't even have a security system."

"Yeah, except that Bonnie was home when she shouldn't have been," Jake said.

"You know, she was lying in front of the passage that leads to the staircase and the back door, so she was standing in his way if he wanted to get out via that route," Amy observed.

Jake nodded. "Yes, that's what I thought too, assuming he had a back door key somehow. Maybe he swiped a copy? Well, I'm still going to work the handyman angle just in case. I'll check with Arthur who had access to the house in the preceding months."

Amy looked pensive. "You know, art thieves sometimes work for companies that install security systems. Perhaps they were thinking of getting one, and had someone in for a quote?"

"Good idea. But why would they suddenly want a security system?" Jake pondered. "Unless...crazy idea, but what if Bonnie did know that the statue was valuable, but didn't tell Arthur? We only have his word for it."

"Well he wasn't at aunt Ethel's death bed, he was at home with the children while she went to New Haven. But that seems very out of character for her. Why would she keep it from him?"

Jake tapped the table with his pen. "Because she already suspected he was cheating on her and thought about getting a divorce?"

"Does that fit with the timeline though? When did aunt Ethel die exactly?"

"I know Arthur's affair started about five months before Bonnie's death." Jake flipped through his files. "And aunt Ethel died about two months later. So it's definitely possible."

"So let's assume that she got the statue from aunt Ethel, who told her it was genuine and very valuable. She decides not to tell Arthur. Then what would she do next? Get a security system? Or...maybe get it appraised first? In secret?"

"Ames, what if she got it appraised, and then the appraiser tried to steal it from her?" He suddenly dropped his pen. "What if your professor's friend is the killer?"


	9. Chapter 9

"I very much doubt it," Amy said. "Bernard Wolff is in a wheelchair."

"Well, what if he's been faking it?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that would be the longest con in the history of the world. Also I doubt Bonnie could afford to go to Feinstein & Wolff. But there are lots of other art appraisers in New York, we should definitely look into that." Amy grabbed her notepad. "And you've given me an idea. I'm going to follow the trail all the way back to Mr. Nussbaum, and look into his old associates. Perhaps they knew that the statue existed and went looking for it."

"That seems like a bit of a long shot, but let's go with it. They must have wanted it pretty badly then," Jake mused. "Hmmm, what if they were looking for the statue because it is actually a sacred key to the mystical realm of Ka'a?"

"I think this case is going to drive us both round the bend."

 

"Any luck with the appraisers?" Amy asked.

Jake threw down his laptop on the table. "No leads, nothing suspicious, seems like another dead end. Nothing on the handymen either."

"Well I've got nothing on Mr. Nussbaum's associates, they're either dead or senile. Not planning any heists for sure. Or epic quests."

Jake put his head in his hands. "I'm so done with this case. We've looked everywhere. Who else could have known she had the statue? She'd only had it for three months! Should we look at friends, neighbours and family again? Although none of them seemed the artsy type. Unless perhaps Bonnie's sister secretly wanted aunt Ethel's statue as well and-"

"Three months..." Amy mumbled. "Only three months..."

"What?"

Amy was pacing around excitedly. "You know that art thieves often work on commission? They spot a target, but then they make sure to line up a buyer first and negotiate over the price before they make their move?"

"Yes?"

"What if we're not looking for an art thief from New York, but an art thief from New Haven?"

"You're right," Jake said, comprehension dawning. "Yes, you're right. He might have had it in his sights in Ethel's home, and then followed it to New York once he'd found a buyer."

"So we can start all over again," Amy said, putting her head down on the open files in frustration. "So much work. And I have to study for my test too."

"I'm going to do this," Jake said. "You focus on your test. This is my responsibility."


	10. Chapter 10

"Well, you were right about the Ivy League," Jake said, opening a file in front of Amy. "Meet Morton Sawyer, currently taking therapeutic painting classes at New Haven Correctional Facility. He's smart, he's arrogant, and he dropped out of Yale. Comcast installer by day, art thief by night. This guy is the ultimate professional. He leaves no trace, no prints, no DNA. In and out like a ghost."

"If he's so perfect, how'd he get caught?"

"Just bad luck, traffic stop. They found a painting and a ski mask in his car. But they could only put him away for two cases because he still had the art. One in his car and one in his home. But there's at least a dozen other cases in the New Haven area with the same M.O. that they can't prove a definite link to. An M.O. that includes shadowing the victims to establish their routines, and stealing their keys and making a copy before putting them back. They found a whole catalogue of potential targets, in various stages of planning. Meticulous planning."

Amy nodded. "So it's definitely him?"

"Yes, the M.O. matches and he has no alibi, but more importantly, I found out he installed WiFi in Ethel's home about six months before the murder."

Amy gasped. "And then he saw the statue. He probably couldn't believe his luck. The last place he expected to find a valuable piece of art."

"Yes. And maybe he took a picture and waited because he didn't have a buyer yet, or because he didn't want to commit the crime too close after installing the WiFi, but when he finally went back for it Ethel had died, and he must have followed the statue's trail to New York somehow." Jake closed the folder and threw it on his desk. "And you know what's really sad? Bonnie paid for the WiFi. She did a sweet thing for her great aunt, and in the end she got beaten to death for it."

"So shall we go to New Haven and interrogate this guy?"

"No." Jake shook his head. "We'll never get a confession that way. He knows we've got no evidence linking him to the crime, except that he installed WiFi for the victim's great aunt. This guy is a perfectionist. He commits perfect crimes. Except one. One that went wrong. He was already nervous because he wasn't on his home turf. And then she came downstairs and surprised him. She disrupted his carefully laid plan. She stood in the way of his escape route. So he hit her in a blind panic. And then the head of the statue came off, and he got angry, really angry. I wondered for a long time why he didn't run away when he had the chance, when she was lying on the floor. But he blamed her for breaking the statue, and that's why he kept hitting her with it. She ruined his plans, she ruined his statue. This is his greatest shame, the crime that went wrong. He won't confess to it because in his mind he pretends it never happened. He's pushed it away, put it in a box, locked it tight and thrown it in the Hudson."

"So what is your plan?"

"He's ashamed of killing a woman. I'm going to make him proud of killing a woman."

"What?" she exclaimed.

"I'm going to go in there as his cellmate, posing as a serial killer, brag about killing women and constantly put him down and belittle him for being an measly art thief until he confesses to me that he too killed a woman once."

"That's insane!"

"Hey, I did that course on Profiling. And my shrink agrees with me, by the way. Very useful, going to therapy."

"It's not about whether this will work or not. It's about you going back to prison! That's your worst nightmare. You still wake up screaming sometimes."

"It used to be my worst nightmare, being an innocent man in prison. But now my worst nightmare is putting an innocent man in prison. I need to make this right, Ames, and a confession is the only way. So maybe it's time I faced my demons, if that's what it takes to make him sing."


	11. Chapter 11

"Some serial killers brag about killing prostitutes," Jake mused aloud, "but I think that's bullshit. You can pick them up anywhere, what's the challenge? They don't even act surprised when you punch their teeth in, they've seen it all. Strangling a prostitute, you know what that is? A public service." He turned around on his bunk. His cellmate didn't respond, and he continued, "Now I like to kill housewives. Sweet, innocent housewives. Blond and pretty and sweet. Nurses and teachers and soccer moms. They scream so nice." He spat on the floor. "But you wouldn't know about that, would you, you fucking pussy."

On their way to the mess hall Morton gave him a wide berth. Jake had found there was a big difference between being imprisoned as a disgraced cop or a violent serial killer. He got more respect, they avoided his eye. He frequently spoiled everyone's dinner with gruesome tales of death and dismemberment. He had plenty of material to draw from. And he channeled all his fear and anxiety into unhinged, unpredictable behavior.

He meted out his own justice. If he saw something that deserved a good punch, he would wait a few days and then randomly blow up at the culprit for, say, not finishing his vegetables. (He was going to be such a great dad.) Sometimes he even did small nice things for people just to watch the panic in their faces.

He was feared. He didn't need to join a gang. He enjoyed riling up the guards, the ones that did and the ones that didn't know. He got sent to solitary a lot, which helped to further build his creds, but he got some secret perks in there. Like a PlayStation. Still, it was solitary and often the walls did creep up on him and he had to make every effort not to go mad, alone with his nightmares.

But when he lay on his bunk, bruised, frightened, crazed, and wanted to give up he thought of another man, lying on another bunk in another prison not too far away. A man who didn't hold a grudge even though Jake had ruined his life, taken his freedom, his home, and his children away from him. Children who lost not one but two parents that night. Years of his life wasted in prison. Could he ever make it right? What is innocence, he wondered, and can we ever really get it back?

But it wasn't just my fault, he thought sometimes. Charles hadn't been critical enough, the defense attorney was an alcoholic, the DA just wanted to score points, the judge was lazy and the jurors were stupid. Sometimes he blamed the system. Arthur Cardew wasn't the only innocent man imprisoned in this country.

But it was his fault. He had been prejudiced, blind, and arrogant. How proud he had been when he'd uncovered the evidence of cheating, sure that he had cracked the case with an irrefutable motive. His father had been a serial cheater, but he'd never beaten his mother. So why had he jumped to conclusions? Only in prison did he understand the full weight of what he had done: forty years of this.

He thought he had learned his lesson the first time in Jericho, but it seemed he needed to learn it again. 'I wish every cop had a voice in their head, asking 'what if he's innocent?' Captain Holt had said, and although he had been more cautious with new cases, admitting past mistakes was somehow harder. He felt a manic urge to reopen all his old cases and go over them with a fine-tooth comb, but right here, right now, all he could do was replay as much as he could remember over and over in his mind searching for possible errors, and try not to go mad doing it.

Sometimes he wondered what would have happened if he hadn't been so sure of himself on the Cardew case back then. What would it have meant for his career if he hadn't gotten that conviction? He imagined standing in Captain McGintley's office explaining his doubts. 'Why are you doing his lawyer's work?' he would have asked gruffly, and then he would probably have reassigned the case and branded him a lunatic.

In the best case he would have let a man go free with a big arrow pointing at this head. Because he'd never have found the real killer. Not without Amy. Amy, without whose persistence he would never have reopened the case at all. Amy, who was not afraid to call him out and take him to task. And without whose tenacity and expertise he never would have cracked this case. He clutched his sheets. How much he wanted to hold her and touch her right now. But he had a job to finish.

"You know what I hate most?" he asked his cellmate. "Interfering women. The ones who think they're God's gift to men. Bossy, overbearing women, who expect you to worship at their feet just for existing. Who think they're smarter than you. Women who boss you around. Who criticise you and tell you you're wrong. That you need to do better. Who get in your way and ruin your things. Fuck those bitches."


	12. Chapter 12

"...and then I cut her head off and it just sort of rolled away, and then I chopped her arm off too, and I said to her, aren't you a pretty doll?"

A guard entered Jake's cell. "Solitary," he announced and grabbed him to cuff his hands.

"What'd I do?" he exclaimed. He honestly couldn't recall doing anything that merited solitary confinement in the last few days.

"You know what you did," he replied dismissively.

"What the fuck, man?" Jake hissed as they marched through the corridor, as this was one of the guards who knew.

"Orders," he replied without looking at him.

They reached the cell, and he opened the door and pushed him in, more roughly than usual. "Have fun."

"Thanks Dick!" Jake shouted back at him. His name was Richard but it still felt good. Then he turned to look inside his cell. "Ames?" he said, rooted to the spot. "Are you a hallucination?"

"No, I'm real. I'm really here," she said, coming towards him and hugging him tightly, tears in her eyes.

 

"This is definitely the craziest place we've ever had sex," Jake mused, as they sat on the thin mattress sharing a scratchy blanket. "That anyone's had sex, maybe. It's like the Mile High Club, except really low." He waved his arm around invitingly. "Welcome to the Bangkok Hilton."

Amy looked at the bare walls. "I really like what you've done with the place."

He nodded. "You were in here before, but you were mashed potatoes."

"Uh ok?"

"I'm not crazy. At least I'm not now. But it's a long story. Oh, how long are you here for?"

"Only four hours," Amy said regretfully. "It was already pretty hard to arrange without blowing your cover. I had to pull a lot of strings. And I hope you don't mind but...I told them we were trying. I know it's really private, but I think it helped."

Jake grabbed her hand underneath the blanket. "That's ok. It's true after all. Wait, so did you time your visit? I kinda lost track in here."

"Yes," she said, smiling. "According to my schedule I'm at peak fertility right about now."

He took a deep breath. "Well, let's see what I can do in four hours."

"Hey." She grabbed his arm. "It shouldn't be a chore. We can always try again when you get out."

"Oh, it's not a chore. It's my favorite thing in the world. All I'm saying is, let's not waste it on my second favorite thing in the world."

She laughed and stuck her tongue out at him. "So how are you getting on with the case?"

"So far no luck, but I'm trying. I don't have forever in here, so I'd better get a confession soon." He sighed. "And I'm getting really tired of talking about different ways to kill and dismember women. I don't think I'll be taking it up as a hobby when I get out."

"No, I should hope not."

"Of course I wouldn't kill _you_ ," he reassured her. "I'd just keep you in a dark pit in my basement and feed you fresh fish from a bucket."

Amy looked disgusted. "Well, we don't have a basement," she said resolutely.

"Oh but my other house, deep in the woods..." Jake began. "Ok, maybe I should stop. I think I might be starting to lose my grip on reality."

"Yes please." Amy sighed. "You have no idea how deranged you sound. Also for the record, we are _never ever_ roleplaying this."

He grinned creepily at her. "But you love sushi!"

Amy shook her head and put a hand on his shoulder. "Ok, remember that time we roleplayed as Queen Amelia and Rex Buckingham, on Her Majesty's Secret Service?"

Jake snorted. "Vividly, yes."

"Well if you were in prison in England, you'd be at Her Majesty's pleasure," she said wickedly.

"Oh really?" Jake considered it for a moment. "Well let's go with that instead." He took her hand and kissed it. "My Queen."


	13. Chapter 13

"The DA was pleased," Amy said, tapping the bare metal table. "Very detailed."

Jake nodded. "Good."

"Are you sure you want to do this yourself?"

"Yes, I need to finish what I started," Jake replied. "Did you bring my uniform?"

"Yes, freshly ironed, and your shaving kit." Amy put the bag on the table. "And your wedding ring." She took it off her necklace, and he grabbed her hand as she reached across the table.

Then he looked at the large clock on the wall. "It's almost lunchtime. We'll have an audience."

A short while later Jake entered the mess hall, clean-shaven, in his uniform. He looked around; everyone was in their usual spot, with Morton somewhere in the back. He motioned for the guards to stay behind. He could walk this room without fear. As he passed between the rows of inmates all went quiet, and all eyes were on him. "Hi Bill," he said casually, and Bill stared back at him open-mouthed. "How's the foot, Antoine?" he inquired, and Antoine immediately looked down at his plate. "Eat your greens, Pop."

When he finally reached Morton the man was cowering under his gaze. "Hi roomie," he said slowly. "I'm Detective Jake Peralta of the NYPD. You've been charged with the murder of Bonnie Cardew." He waited for a reaction on Morton's face, but all he got was the same frightened stare. "You'd better come with me."

Looks and hushed whispers flew across the long tables as he walked back with Morton in tow. Bill stared him in the face, and started a sarcastic slow clap. Jake tipped his hat at him in passing, and left.

 

It was spring in New York. Jake gazed up at the blossoming trees as he walked along the street. He had a newfound appreciation for many small things that only existed outside of prison walls. Birds sang merry songs of innocence and of experience. A breath of wind shook some blossoms from the tree, landing on the sidewalk to be trampled.

He reached a weathered brownstone and rang the doorbell. The door opened, revealing a middle-aged lady with years of grief etched into her face.

"Mrs. Mornington, I'm Detective Jake Peralta, may I come in?"

She took a step backwards and grabbed the door. "Are the children alright, are they-"

Jake raised his hand. "I'm not here about the children. Although it does concern them, and they will need to hear this later. But I'd like to talk to you first. May I come in?" he asked again.

She showed him into the living room, and she nervously returned to her faded armchair while he carefully sat down on the couch.

"I'm sorry, this will come as a shock to you," he started, "but I have news about the murder of your daughter Bonnie."

Mrs. Mornington jumped up from her chair. "Did he confess? Did the bastard finally confess?"

"No, Mrs. Mornington, this is not about Arthur. A man called Morton Sawyer has been charged with the murder of your daughter. He was a thief who broke into their home, and she surprised him. He's made a full confession."

"But...Arthur....He was arrested, he was convicted!"

"Yes," Jake said. "I'm the one who arrested him." He took a deep breath. "But I made a mistake, and I made it right."

 

**Postscript**

"So shall we call him New Haven Correctional Facility Solitary Confinement Peralta?" Jake asked, as he cradled his new baby and smiled.

  


_That's not the beginning of the end  
That's the return to yourself  
The return to innocence_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endquote by [Enigma](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rk_sAHh9s08)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Bonus Content: for b99xperaltiago, who didn't want it to end.

**Deleted Scene: Sex & Candy**

Amy suddenly started getting antsy, pacing back and forth between the concrete walls.

"Are you ok?" Jake asked, looking up from the briefcase full of candy she had brought along. "You can go out, you know. I caw ask the gwuard," he said while stuffing his mouth with gummy worms.

"No, it might look suspicious," she argued. "And I don't want to waste even a minute with you in here. I just need to calm down." She sat down on the floor in a yoga pose and closed her eyes, trying hard to concentrate.

Jake sat down opposite her. "Just think of nice things, some nice place," he said soothingly. "Like, our honeymoon."

She took a deep breath and furrowed her brow. "Yes. I'm there, and you're there,” she said slowly. “We're on the beach, the sun is shining and Captain Holt is there. He makes me feel safe."

"Eh ok."

"He tells me I'm a good cop."

"He tells you you're a great cop," Jake said. "That your paperwork is exemplary and that you make him proud."

Amy started smiling. "And then he leaves, and it's just us."

"Thank god," Jake muttered.

"And then we go to our room, and I'm Holly Gennero and you're Melvin Dewey."

~~~~~

> **THE ART OF MURDER**  
>  _How a selfless act of bravery from an unfairly condemned man set off a chain of events that ultimately led to his release._  
>  **By Jude Parr**  
>    
> Never say that a liberal arts education is good for nothing. When NYPD Sergeant and Art History graduate Amy Santiago identified a bloody murder weapon as a valuable piece of art she blew an old case wide open and helped free an innocent man from prison. A man her own husband, Detective Jake Peralta, had put there almost a decade ago. However, he now joined her in the hunt for the real killer, leaving no stone unturned and personally going to hell and back to reverse a wrongful conviction. What follows is a story of perseverance, courage and determination. It's a story with many twists and turns, and a lot of dead ends. But above all it's a story of redemption. A Shawshank Redemption.

  
"We're in the New Yorker!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's to you, Nicola and Bart](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nY8uEYsFoJs)


End file.
